


The Bath Bomb Soldier

by IkolHasMyAngel



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Winter Soldier (Comics)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Maybe a little humor, Slow Burn, universe hopping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-03-31 16:14:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13978824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IkolHasMyAngel/pseuds/IkolHasMyAngel
Summary: In a joke of cosmic proportions, you are mysteriously gifted a bath bomb that when used, gives you your very own super soldier.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The original idea of the bath bomb is not mine, but every word I've written is all me. This story and its future updates can also be found on my blog at sebtheromanianprince.tumblr.com/tagged/fics. Thank you for reading!

It had been a long and trying day of serving rude people at the grocery store. Ringing customers up and keeping a smile plastered on your face, even when you wanted nothing but to tell them all to fuck off, was a feat of Herculean proportions. It didn’t help that you were struggling to pay off your school loans and on top of that you were trying to support your family back in New Jersey. And here you were, living in the Middle of Nowhere, Idaho just to go to school at the cheapest college around. Growing up poor was a real disadvantage, and one you couldn’t wait to be rid of.

Not that you were particularly materialistic, because you weren’t. From a young age you learned to appreciate the important things in life, like the people that loved you. But love didn’t pay the bills, and loneliness weighed all the more when you lived alone in a worn little apartment. On occasion you were visited by a stray cat, when the moon was high in the sky and the surrounding fields were bathed in its light. And sure enough, this was one of those nights, because as soon as you stepped inside, you could hear the familiar meows of the stray at the back kitchen window.

You shut and locked the front door behind you before shrugging off your coat and flipping the lights on as you walked down the hall. Tugging your apron off, you draped it and your coat on a kitchen chair and dropped your purse on the rickety little dinner table with your car keys. Your lips quirked into a small smile as you set eyes on your visitor’s face. The cat’s white fur shone in the moonlight, it’s amber gaze impatient. It watched intently as you made your way forward and cracked the window open. In a lithe bound, the feline jumped inside and began sniffing about the floor. Finding no immediate morsels, it meowed and rubbed its head against your ankles.

“So my little beggar returns. Not that I mind feeding you, but when are you gonna bring me a gift for my trouble?”

The cat merely flicked its tail and looked up at you expectantly. Shaking your head, you crouched and petted it softly behind the ears. A soft mewl came from it before an intense purring started up from the center of its chest. Your hand moved down to massage at its angled cheeks and the cat pushed its little white head against your hand. It was moments like these that you were grateful that this creature decided you were worthy of seeking out. You had tried to keep it before, but the cat would not have its freedom hindered nor would it accept a collar. It was a mysterious little thing, but friendly. You had no clue where it went most of the time but you were nonetheless delighted it returned, even if it was just for food.

“Alright, how about some grub little one,” you whispered. “I could eat too. It’s been a hell of a day.”

Making sure you didn’t step on your furry friend, you cracked open the fridge and pulled out a half gone can of cat food along with a Tupperware of last night’s chicken and rice. You stuck your dinner in the microwave for a minute and emptied the rest of the cat food into a cheap blue food bowl. After a few minutes, you were settled on the old brown couch in the living room with the cat nosing at your thigh. Chuckling, you set its dish on the floor near you and then switched on the bulky TV sitting atop a sagging TV stand. You’d acquired most of these through a garage sale for cheap, so you couldn’t really complain about their state. It had saved you a good amount of money.

A commercial on the screen threw pale light into the living room, lengthening the shadows along the far corners of the room and under the small coffee table where your drink sat. Folding your legs up Indian style, you tucked into your dinner quietly. The sound of enthusiastic licking told you the cat was also enjoying its meal. You looked up from your food in time to see the commercial end and a movie start up. A man with dark brown hair and blue eyes appeared on screen, the lower half of his face obscured by a black tactical mask.

“Check it out, Moonlight,” you said to the cat excitedly. “It’s the Winter Soldier.”

Flickering light danced on the walls as the Winter Soldier fought a shell-shocked Steve Rogers within the confines of the television. You forked another mouthful of rice into your mouth, avidly watching the beautifully choreographed fight. It always did funny things to your insides when the Soldier strutted after his target, hair blowing across the murderous look in his pale blue eyes. Sometimes you’d think about what it would be like to have that look directed at you, not with the intent to kill, but to consume. Other times, daydreams about how you would help the Winter Soldier heal flitted through your mind, especially on the slow days at work. They were nothing but the dumb fantasies of a lonely girl though.

As you watched the story unfold, you told Moonlight all about him. His full name, age, and the many things that had befallen him. You talked through several other commercials and the emotionally charged scene when the helicarriers are falling. A sudden weight makes you pause and you look down to see the cat sniffing at the remnants of your chicken.

“Am I boring you?” you ask, moving your tupperware away. Amber eyes follow it, and an exasperated yowl complains at your actions.

You sigh at the tv, watching a drenched Bucky turn and walk away from a half-drowned Captain America. “You know, I wouldn’t mind having him around. At least then my life would not be so mundane.”

Moonlight crawls across your lap and sticks its head into the plastic container, taking up a piece of chicken. You roll your eyes and set it down on the couch cushion next to you.

“Fine, take it. At least get me a half dead mouse as thanks. I’d take the Winter Soldier too, but that’s not within your power, is it?”

You unfold your legs and kick off your tennis shoes, the relief making you curl your toes until they audibly crack. With a slow, content breath leaving your nose, you lie back against the arm of the couch just as the shorthair hops onto the floor. It scampers off in the direction of the kitchen and you can only assume it’s letting itself out through the still open window. That’s how the visits usually go anyway, and without a second thought you continue watching the rest of the movie. You’re not sure how much time has passed, or when you dozed off, but you’re woken up by a light bop on the stomach and the crinkle of plastic.

“Huh?” you mumble sleepily.

You crack your eyes open to find a plastic wrapped bath bomb on your belly. It’s black, with a smattering of silver glitter all over. It looks like the night sky compressed into a sphere. Bewildered, you look around to find the origin of the bathtime accessory but see nothing out of the ordinary. Frowning, you pick it up and examine it. You don’t remember buying a bath bomb. They weren’t exactly cheap, and you couldn’t indulge in such a luxury. Still, here it was. What did you have to lose by using it? A relaxing bath sounded like a great idea before crawling into bed. You made your way to the kitchen, bath bomb in hand, and shut the window before turning off the lights.

Then, as you walked tiredly to your bedroom, you drew up a mental list of things to get done tomorrow on your day off. There was laundry to be done, some grocery shopping, and a little bit of cleaning. You also had to get a new can of food for Moonlight. That cat wouldn’t let you hear the end of it if you didn’t have food waiting when it deigned to stop by again. You set the bath bomb on the bed and undressed. Dropping your work uniform in the hamper next to your closet, you made your way to the bathroom attached to your room. You flicked on the lights and pulled back the shower curtain to reveal your bathtub. It was old fashioned in that it was not attached to the wall, but it did come with a detachable shower head. It must have been added earlier when the owner tried to touch up the place to rent it out.

It was a mix of old and new, and for that you found it charming. You left the tub to fill with steaming water as you went back to your room and grabbed your favorite red towel from the closet. It softly hugged your curves when you wrapped it around your body and tucked the corner snugly to keep it in place. Lifting your arms, you gathered your hair up in a loose twist on top of your head. Then, thinking ahead, you grabbed a pair of panties and a threadbare NASA shirt to sleep in. With sleepwear and bath bomb in hand, you returned to the bathroom and shut off the water. The bath was little over half full. Already you could feel yourself slipping into a drowsy contentment, the steam in the room making you loose-limbed.  

Setting down your clothes on the sink’s counter, you unwrapped your prize. The bath bomb shimmered prettily in the glow of the bathroom light. It fit easily in your hand, and smelled pleasantly woodsy, with slight lemongrass undertones. Looking forward to a night of comfort, you dropped it in the middle of the bathtub. It splashed lightly and then began to bubble and froth under the surface of the water, the black color bleeding outwards. You watched, mesmerized as the specks of glitter danced on the little waves made by the bubbling bath bomb. Excitement took over, and you hooked your towel on the bar mounted next to the tub before climbing feet first into the hot water. Your eyes slid shut in bliss as you sank down, but then immediately flew open when your stretching legs hit what felt like a firm chest.

The first thing you saw was a dimpled chin, covered in scruff, then other details hit you at once. A large man, fully clothed in black leather battle gear. Intense blue eyes. Shoulder length, dark brown hair. Pink flushed lips. Your knees drew up together as the space in the tub suddenly became nonexistent. Two long arms draped over the sides of the bath, the left one made of shiny metal. And on either side of your ribs was stuffed a muscular thigh. Your ear-splitting scream echoed in the confines of the small bathroom as you scrambled to pull yourself out of the cramped tub, kicking the man in the chest in the process. You covered your chest with one arm while your other grasped at the lip of the bath, twisting to get your legs up under you.

_WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE FUCK WHAT THE F-_

Your mind reeled at the unexpected intrusion, your throat becoming raw from continuing your shrill, panicked screams. The man’s legs moved up, and it seemed to you he was also trying to stand, which made your terror grow tenfold. In your haste to get away from him, you miscalculated the distance to the floor and slipped face first over the side, smacking wetly onto the ground in a graceless sprawl. You lay stunned on your stomach for a moment from the impact, during which you heard the sloshing of water as the man stood and stepped out next to you. 

Your face scrunched up in pain, your breath coming in quick pauses between your loud cries as you scrabbled at the tiled floor. In a corner of your mind the scraps of the intruder’s appearance were piecing themselves together into a familiar picture. You looked over your left shoulder to see him bend towards you before pulling you up to stand against his chest, his hand warm against your slick arm.

“Stop screaming,” the Winter Soldier rasped.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a joke of cosmic proportions, you are mysteriously gifted a bath bomb that when used, gives you your very own super soldier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's heating up a bit! Sorry for the wait! It's been a crazy two weeks with the end of the semester coming up. Anyway, I made this a little longer since you all have been so patient. Thank you for sticking around!

The low pitch of his command was enough to strike you dumb. All you could do was stare at him wide eyed as his gaze roamed your features. His intense scrutiny caused a swift blush to bleed across your cheeks, all the way down your neck to settle in the valley of your chest. The frantic beats of your heart could be felt against the hard press of the buckles on his leather vest. A spike of adrenaline shot through your body as the realization of how you were pressed chest to knees against him dawned on you. The vulnerability of this position was not lost on you, as you felt him release your arm and lean further against you. Immediately your thoughts started to run a million miles a minute. The implications of your situation were laying themselves out before your very eyes.

  
You have no idea what version of the Winter Soldier you are dealing with. Was he the brainwashed assassin with no scruples? He could kill you without a second thought and leave your body for some unlucky fool to find. A girl with no combat training of any kind would be no challenge for him at all. A flick of his metal arm would be enough to send you to the next world so fast you’d be dead before your body hit the floor. You were familiar with the scope of his abilities and ruthlessness as an asset of HYDRA. The violence and killings that the soldier committed had been impressive in a detached way because they weren’t real. But now here he was in the flesh, caging you with his large body. The history of this damaged man was now a reality. Your legs started to shake out of pure terror, gooseflesh rising all over your wet and exposed skin. There was no telling what he would do.

  
His hair tickled the side of your face as he moved closer, the left side of his body angling into you sideways. It felt like he was embracing you, and your heart responded by going into overdrive. Not knowing what he was up to, you stood perfectly still, the picture of completely harmless cooperation. You weren’t going to give him a reason to kill you any sooner than he meant to. After a moment the soldier pulled back and pushed something dry against you, keeping his gaze fixed on your face. Not daring to break eye contact even for a second, you brought your hands up to feel the soft texture of your bath towel, and the cold grasp of his metal hand on it. Feeling your touch, the soldier quickly removed his hand and averted his gaze to take in the state of your bathroom.

  
Half of the bathwater was now puddled on the floor and soaking your bath mat. The black hue of the bath bomb made swirls around your bare feet and the Winter Soldier’s boots. Silver glitter clung to your skin, as well as the soldier’s clothes. If you weren’t so scared and on edge you would have laughed at the sight he made. His hair hung in dripping locks, some of them plastered to the sides of his head and neck. There was a smattering of glitter in the strands and all over his face. The soft overhead light made him shimmer where he stood, a calculating look on his handsome features. His head was cocked to the side, listening intently for any movement beyond the bathroom door.

You quickly wrap yourself in the towel, relief rushing through you at having something to cover up with. At least now if you had the chance to escape it wouldn’t be in your birthday suit. The sleepwear you had grabbed earlier catches your attention from where you’d left it. Actual clothes would offer better range of motion than a hastily tucked towel and they’d cover you better too. Eyeing the pile furtively you inch towards it silently, hand outstretched.

“Don’t.”

Freezing mid reach, you meet his cold gaze.

“I-I just need some clothes,” you stammer.

You don’t know where the courage to speak came from, but you’d be damned if you did nothing to increase the chances of your survival. He regards you for a moment before stalking over and grabbing the bundle off the counter. The soldier shakes them out to reveal the NASA logo on the shirt and a print of small pink hearts on your heather gray panties. Seeing nothing hidden within the clothes he tosses them at your chest. You catch the balled-up garments reflexively and hold them close, fearing he will change his mind.

“You have three seconds,” he states, and turns away.

Not stopping to think, you quickly drop the towel and pull on the shirt. You’ve got your underwear halfway up your legs when he turns back around. You blush and give him a slightly indignant look before pulling the panties up the rest of the way, mindful of not pushing the hem of your shirt up past where it skims the tops of your thighs.

How strange that he should allow you these small mercies, you think. So far, he has done nothing but pick your clumsy ass off the floor and allowed you to keep your modesty. Could this mean you were dealing with a gentle Winter Soldier? One that wasn’t currently a mindless killing machine? If so, you could probably walk out of this alive-

The distinct sound of a blade being unsheathed interrupts your thoughts. Your eyes snap up to catch the soldier approaching you, a sleek black knife in his flesh hand.

“No! Please!”

You don’t get the chance to move away before he’s taken you by the arm again, the metal fingers holding you in a tight grip. This is it, you think. The end of the line. He holds you in such a way that you’re pressed against his side, his right hand wielding the familiar looking weapon. Soundlessly, you’re maneuvered out of the bathroom and into your bedroom. Your heart climbs into your throat in anticipation. There’s a pause as the super soldier scans the room before you’re deposited unceremoniously on your bed, the backs of your legs hitting the edge of the mattress. You don’t dare speak, instead opting to watch him have a quick look through your closet before moving to the bedroom door.

“Stay here,” he orders, and then disappears down the hall without a second glance.

No sound reaches you from outside your bedroom. What he’s looking for, you can only guess. There are no HYDRA scientists lurking anywhere, no brain-scrambling machines or cryotanks. At least not in this universe. You still can’t quite believe you have a fictional man scoping out your apartment. It feels like at any moment you’ll wake up to find that you fell asleep in the tub, shaking off the remnants of a strangely vivid dream. You wring your hands as you sit contemplating a course of action.

What were you supposed to do now? There is only one way out of your apartment, and that’s through the front door. You are no match for a trained assassin who also happens to be a super soldier. And even if you did manage to escape, what then? It’s not like you could go to the police and explain that a dangerous comic book character appeared out of thin air and held you hostage in your own home. That would just get you a one-way ticket to a psych ward. Still, you had to do something about the Winter Soldier.

In a way you feel responsible for him. He did come into the world in your bathtub after all, and if the version you got was HYDRA’s killer puppet, you had to stop him. If he turned out to be just Bucky, then he would need help adjusting to this universe. As a man with many wounds and carrying an immense amount of pain, he deserved that much. A little kindness and guidance in a world where he could finally stop fighting would be invaluable. You needed to get through to him, but how? How would you get him to trust you?

At that moment the subject of your thoughts walks back into the room, his fingers turning the knife deftly point over handle in fluid circles. You instinctively shrink back on the bed when you realize why the blade is so familiar. It’s the one he wielded in the movie against Steve Rogers, the Gerber Mark II. The same weapon he so masterfully used on his best friend. The blood leaves your face when he stops directly in front of you, the dagger inches away from your naked thigh. His grip on the hilt gives no indication that he will hesitate to use it.

“Who are you?” the soldier asks.

He tosses your wallet beside you on the blanket, its contents half out of the pockets. You slowly lift your hands in both a calming and surrendering gesture before giving him your name.

“Don’t play with me,” he growls. He shoves you back against the mattress, his metal arm pressing into your sternum. “What position do you hold? Who do you report to?”

“I-I’m a cashier,” you whimper. “Patty’s my manager! Please don’t kill me!”

Tears well up in your eyes, making him a blurry smudge in your limited field of vision. The Winter Soldier is heavy. You’re sure he can feel how hard your body is trembling under him, along with the frantic beating of your heart against his arm. You take shuddering breaths as he lightly runs the knifepoint up your thigh to the edge of your panties.

“I will do far more than that if you don’t tell me what I want to know,” he murmurs near your throat.

The threat is delivered so softly that your skin barely registers the puff of his breath against your neck. Still, you break out in gooseflesh. You’re hyper aware of him and the tip of the Gerber knife sliding slowly under your panty line. To make matters worse, under your fear is the unmistakable warmth of arousal. You have lusted and pined after Bucky for so long that not even the guarantee of torture is not enough to stop heat from pooling low in your belly.

“I s-swear I’m telling the truth,” you gasp. You squeeze your eyes shut and the tears make lukewarm trails down the corners of your eyes and into your hair. “I work at the grocery store in town. Please, you got to believe me. Bucky, please!”

His body goes immediately still on top of you.

“How do you know that name?”

Your eyes open to see his stormy expression. There’s a vulnerability in his blue eyes that makes the breath catch in your throat. From this close you can see the small gold flecks that ring his pupils. His mouth is a hard line, a tell that he is apprehensive. In that moment a fierce rush of protectiveness takes you over. You are going to be honest and gentle with this man, even if it’s the last thing you do.

“I know your name because in this reality you are fictional. You’re a superhero from a comic book,” you explain softly. “You’re a good man that a lot of terrible things happened to. Bucky, you are safe here. The people that hurt you don’t exist in this universe.”

He stares for a beat before grabbing your right hand and twisting it. A hot flash of pain tears through your wrist and you cry out. Your free hand grabs on to his metal fingers in a futile attempt to pry them open as the cold press of the knife announces itself against the bottom left side of your ribcage. You’re crying in earnest now, unable to stop the tears from streaming down your scrunched-up face.

“I won’t ask you again,” he hisses.

The bones in your wrist protest at the sharp angle they’re being kept in. The pain is burning up to the tips of your fingers now as they grow numb in Bucky’s vise-like grip. A sob escapes from between your lips, your feet kicking uselessly over the edge of the bed. This is not how you were expecting him to react. If anything, the news that he was free should have put him at ease. He could start over, live his life the way he wants to without having to be hypervigilant. He wouldn’t have to keep looking over his shoulder-

From the depths of the pounding pain, a thought surfaces.

Of course he doesn’t believe you! Who readily believes they’ve jumped universes, let alone that they’re fictional? He needs proof, you moron!

“I can show you!” you yelp. “Everything you want to know! I can show you!”

Bucky increases the pressure slightly.

“What do you mean?” he demands.

The pain doubles and you can’t help but scream in reply.

“The proof is on my laptop! I can access all the information on there!”

He keeps his hold for a few more seconds before he warns, “If you try anything, you’ll regret it. Understand?”

Nodding frantically, you agree. As soon as he lets go pinpricks shoot throughout your hand from the blood resuming its natural course through the veins and capillaries. You groan and cradle your wrist to your chest. Rubbing soft circles on the sore tendons, you gingerly sit up as Bucky moves away. It isn’t broken, but you think it might be sprained. That’s going to be a bitch to deal with for the next few days. Gathering your bearings, you think back to where you last left your computer. It had to be in your messenger bag still, next to the couch.

“My computer is in the living room,” you inform him. “It might need to charge.”

You stand and make your way to the door, Bucky following closely behind. Flipping light switches on as you go, you marvel at the soldier’s skill. He searched the apartment in the dark earlier with nothing but a knife. If your place had been a HYDRA facility, it would have been impressive for him to take out agents in near pitch darkness. But no, this is just a dingy little apartment in redneck territory, made all the dingier by your futile attempts to make it homey. The only dangerous thing around these parts are the elk that roam the surrounding mountains and stand in the middle of the roads late at night.

Spotting your messenger bag, you retrieve it and rifle through it as you make your way to the kitchen table. You pull your laptop out along with the charger and plug it into the outlet, mindful of your sore wrist. As soon as it’s set up, you prop it open and input your password with a soft touch of the keys. The screen changes to reveal your laptop’s wallpaper. It’s a profile view of Bucky with his metal arm in full display. He is looking somewhere ahead of him, a clear and determined look on his face. Captain America’s shield takes up the background in soft, sanded down colors. It makes the monochrome shape of him stand out.

You throw the Bucky standing at your right shoulder a wary glance. He stares at the picture with furrowed brows. He’s noting the differences in his current appearance and that of the picture. The Bucky in the wallpaper is from the Civil War movie. He’s not dressed in the HYDRA sponsored combat gear he is sporting now, and his hair is slightly shorter. You clear your throat lightly and open the internet browser. He doesn’t say anything as you open various tabs, all with different websites and searches.

“I’m not sure where to start,” you admit. “I guess this is as good a spot as any.”

You click on the Netflix tab and pull up the movie you had been watching earlier on the TV. You skip to the part where Steve, Natasha, and Sam encounter him on the highway. Throughout the fight scene you glance at him from the corner of your eye, gauging his reaction. Bucky stands enraptured, his eyes following every movement on the laptop screen. You glance down to see that he has a white knuckled grip on his dagger.

The movie score goes almost completely silent as the three heroes curl themselves against the car door and Steve manages to shove them all out of the crashing car, skidding along the asphalt on the makeshift sled. They grind to a halt and quickly get on their feet to face the threat. At this point you start to wonder if perhaps you should have picked a different starting point. Your wrist is a reminder of how precarious the situation is, and you silently hope that it won’t come to something worse.

Accepting the fact that you can’t change your mind now, you let the movie continue to play out. The fast-moving camera angles and different points of view illustrate how this is all make believe. It’s only a movie for entertainment purposes in this universe, and nothing more. Not even the best intelligence agencies, evil or benign, have this kind of footage. They certainly don’t put it together with cinematography in mind. You peek at Bucky again under your eyelashes. His nostrils are flaring, and his lips are parted in a look of quiet disbelief.

He swallows hard just as his doppelganger is thrown over Steve’s shoulder. The mask falls in the center of the screen. Movie Bucky stands, and the camera shot changes into a close up as he turns, his face on full display. Something like a gasp escapes the man standing next to you. Instinctively, you position yourself to jump out of your seat at any moment.

“Bucky?” Steve breathes in shock.

“Who the hell is Bucky?” The Winter Soldier replies, before turning and pointing his gun at his childhood best friend.

He’s stopped by Sam swooping in on metal wings and kicking him hard enough to roll him away several feet. He regains his footing, only to make a last-ditch effort at shooting Steve. It’s not until Natasha blows up the truck he’s standing beside that the soldier disappears. You decide to skip ahead and stop at the scene with the helicarriers. The two super soldiers are at the tail end of their fight. Steve rescues Bucky from being pinned under heavy debris.

“You know me,” Steve pants.

“No I don’t!” Bucky yells, and punches him with his metal arm.

You wring your hands anxiously as you openly watch Bucky taking in the scene.

“Bucky… you’ve known me your whole life,” Steve assures.

The backhanded blow echoes in what’s left of the helicarrier, and the captain falls from the force of the hit. A blast erupts, and the mammoth structure continues its descent towards the river as smoke bellows from various parts of it.

“Your name…” Steve huffs as he stands, “Is James...Buchanan...Barnes.”

“SHUT UP!” Bucky screams, and hits him again.

A sudden lump grows in your throat, and you shut your eyes against the raw emotion playing out in front of you. If it’s this hard to watch, you can’t imagine what it’s like for Bucky to relive this moment in high definition while standing in a stranger’s kitchen.

“I’m not going to fight you,” you hear Steve say, along with the soft clang of the shield you know he has dropped. “You’re my friend.”

There’s a yell.

“You’re my mission.”

You hear the distinct sounds of blows, some punctuating Bucky’s words.

“You’re. My. Mission!”

A pause, and you know what’s coming next.

“Then finish it,” Steve slurs. “‘Cause I’m with you to the end of the line.”

There’s a crashing sound, and you know the captain is falling. You take in a shuddering breath and open your eyes. Steve is sinking into the Potomac when a silver hand reaches towards him. It cuts to black and then to Bucky dragging him out of the river. Water dribbles out of the side of his mouth, and a conflicted Bucky watches him for a moment before turning and walking away, his right arm held gingerly against his abdomen.

“Enough.”

You jump in your seat, having almost forgotten who was standing next to you. Hitting the spacebar, the movie comes to a stop. You chance a look at Bucky. He’s panting, his hands shaking at his sides. He stares at the floor, unseeing as he backs away from the table. His back hits the kitchen entryway that connects to the living room, and there’s a sharp tinkling as the dagger falls from his grasp. Alarmed, you stand from your seat unsure what to do. Bucky slides down the wall and stops to sit on the linoleum floor. He places his head between his knees and gasps for air. It’s then you realize he is having a panic attack. Immediately you kneel beside him, the only thought in your mind is to help him.

“It’s okay,” you soothe. “You’re okay. Just breathe with me.”

Bucky’s fingers are white as he grips his knee. You inhale slowly and loud enough for him to hear, for four seconds. Then you pause for seven seconds before exhaling for eight seconds. You continue this pattern and after several minutes he begins to keep pace with your breaths. The fingers of his flesh hand relax and color returns to them. You’re not sure how long you sit with him like this, but after a while his breaths even out.

“That’s it,” you murmur. “You’re safe.”

Bucky glances at you between glittery, dark brown strands of hair. The look in his eyes is unfathomable. You have no idea what he’s thinking, but you decide to give him space.

“I’ll get you some water,” you offer.

As you rise, his metal hand catches the hem of your shirt. Pausing, you look down to see him squeeze his eyes shut. Compassion blooms warm in your chest at the sight of him.

“I remember,” he says in hushed tones.

It was going to be a long night.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a joke of cosmic proportions, you are mysteriously gifted a bath bomb that when used, gives you your very own super soldier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am terribly sorry for taking so long to update! I appreciate your patience so much! Hopefully this chapter makes up for it. This chapter is mostly angst with some rodent death. It's not graphic though. As always, thank you for reading!
> 
> P.S. If you're curious about the shirt in question, you can find it here: http://6dollarshirts.com/element-of-indecision

Four am rolls around to find you seated at the kitchen table with Bucky. He’s cupping an untouched mug of chamomile tea in between his hands, the nail of his thumb making slight scratching noises against the blue ceramic handle. You’re not sure if it’s distrust or contained shock that has stopped him from taking a drink, but he has kept an almost vacant gaze trained at the bottom of the cup ever since the both of you sat down to talk. Piecing together what he could remember was a puzzle all its own, but with gentle questions and patience, you were able to figure out a timeline of sorts. Bucky was missing a great deal of his memories. Steve was still a familiar stranger, and HYDRA the thing he must run from.

There were scraps of other memories, however. His body being dragged along snow covered ground. Men in white lab coats, guards, and metal tables. Waking to find himself fitted with a new arm. Mental conditioning sessions. The cold oblivion of a cryotank. The very last thing he recalled was visiting the Smithsonian Institution in Washington D.C. to learn more about Steve and who he was before HYDRA took him. These key memories told you that this was pre-Civil War Bucky, fresh out of decades long torture and brainwashing. The super soldier’s grasp on his identity was shaky. Dropping the bomb that he wasn’t real in your world made it all the shakier, and you’re not sure how he’s going to come out of it.

He has been sitting quietly for close to an hour now, his forearms resting on the edge of the table. Your laptop rests beside you, closed and charging. Bucky hadn’t wanted to see any more proof and you couldn’t blame him. It made you feel terrible seeing him so unglued that all you could do was sit with him and offer your silent support. Fatigue and the late hour was getting to you though, and you couldn’t help but rub your stinging eyes. Taking a weary sip of your tea, you try to will the tiredness away. You didn’t want to leave Bucky by himself, not after everything he had seen and learned.

The soft tick of the clock on the kitchen wall beats time to the random scratches of Bucky’s thumb. Together, both sounds take on a lullaby-like quality that makes you squeeze your eyes shut hard for a few seconds to rouse yourself.

“You should sleep,” Bucky murmurs.

Your eyes open at the sound of his voice and find he is still staring into his tea.

“I don’t think I can right now,” you reply, trying to covertly hide a yawn against the lip of your mug. You play it off by taking a long swig of the tepid liquid.

Bucky finally looks up from his drink to lock eyes with you. It takes you so off guard that you stop mid movement, cup halfway back to the tabletop. Exhaustion is written all over his features, from the shadows under his eyes, to the creases lining his forehead and the corners of his mouth. What strikes you most is the look of tired resignation in his eyes. Something twists in your chest at the expression, and you gently set down your mug.

“I can set up the couch for you,” you suggest quietly, “if you want to rest. I have a few extra blankets, and a pillow to spare.”

His gaze falls to where your hands are resting around your tea.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he says.

Furrowing your eyebrows in confusion, you follow his gaze. That’s when you notice your wrist. It’s swollen, and slowly bruising into the shape of fingers, from a dark red into a deep purple. In your worry over Bucky you had forgotten all about it. Now that your attention has been brought back to it, the injury aches and throbs with a beat of its own. You carefully cradle your wrist with your left hand and tuck both under the table to settle them on your lap. Bucky sits upright against the back of his chair and nudges his untouched tea away. His face has hardened, and it makes concern jump to the forefront of your mind again.

His lips open and close a couple of times, then settle into a tight line. You can hear more than see him wringing his hands against his thighs. Tension is coming back to the set of his shoulders as he glares at his lap, seeing something repulsive there.

“Hey,” you say gently to get his attention.

 Bucky closes his eyes, jaw clenching.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes out between his teeth.

“It’s okay,” you placate.

 He shakes his head. “No.”

In one swift movement he’s out of his seat and heading towards the front door. Your stomach drops in a sickening motion that makes you weak with the panic of watching him walk away. Jumping out of your chair, you follow him without thinking, your body moving of its own volition. You can’t let him go like this, hurting and directionless.

“Wait,” you call after him. “Please don’t go!”

Over his shoulder he replies, “I’m not safe.”

“You are with me,” you disagree. “Nothing will harm you here, I promise.”

Bucky stops completely before turning around. He gives you a hard stare as he stalks back towards you, his steps deliberately menacing. You hold your ground, head held high to meet his intense gaze even as anticipation comes alive in sharp bursts within your chest. He towers over you, so close you can feel the warmth of him.  

“You’re not listening. I’m not safe to be around.” His voice carries a hard edge. “I have hurt you once already. I could do it again.”

“You didn’t hurt me out of cruelty,” you point out. “You only did it to ensure your safety. That’s why I said it was okay.”

There is nothing that will shake you from wanting to give Bucky shelter and comfort, not even this attempt at intimidation. You understand how dangerous he is, both from reading the comics and most recently, first hand experience. Still, there is nothing about this man that could ever frighten you into ceasing to care about him. That’s why you’re not allowing him to walk away without first arguing your case, because you’re stubborn like that.

“You could have broken my wrist, but you didn’t,” you continue, chin tilted up, daring him to disagree. “You held back because you’re not someone that enjoys hurting people.”

A loaded silence blankets the living room as you stand there mere inches apart, eyes locked in a battle of wills. You can see his jaw tighten at your words, but he remains silent, searching your face. Hoping that all your concern and faith in him shows on your features, you slowly move closer and gently lay a hand on his upper arm.

 “You’re not a bad person, Bucky,” you whisper with conviction. “And I’m not afraid of having you here. On the contrary, I would like for you to stay. I’d worry about you otherwise.”

His gaze falls to where you’re touching him, the bath bomb glitter still clinging to you both. Bucky’s breath comes shallowly between softly parted lips, and it’s like you can almost see the gears turning in his head, considering every option. You’re still trying to decide if you should stop touching him when he backs away a step, your fingers slipping down his leather clad forearm. Swallowing down your hurt, you ball up your hand against your thigh. You can feel the telltale prickles at the corners of your eyes, but you blink them away, willing yourself not to cry.  

“Why?”

The question is said quietly, but it is no less demanding of an explanation. He darts glances between your face and the fist at your side, taking note of your reactions. Not knowing how to answer, you unclench your hand and start trying to rub the glitter off your knuckles. It’s a long time coping mechanism of yours when in emotionally charged situations, to find something small and repetitive to do while you think. It usually helps you to remain calm, and this time it works. Organizing your thoughts as best you can, you gaze unseeingly at his boots.

“I don’t know how or why you appeared in my bathtub. Honestly, I’m still not sure that I’m not dreaming all of this up,” you confess. “What I do know is that you’re perfectly capable of taking care of yourself. It’s just...you don’t have to do it alone, you know?”

Bucky’s exhale is a whisper in the stillness of the apartment. You peek up to see him taking in the modest surroundings, a wistful look adorning his face.

“I don’t think I’m worth all this,” he breathes.

The ache that grips your heart at his words is becoming all too familiar. The man could really pull at your heartstrings. And you were so damn inarticulate that it was difficult to put your feelings into words. It didn’t help that his presence made your thoughts scattered like leaves in a gust of wind. Still, you had to make him understand.

“No, you’re not,” you agree.

The despondent cast of his eyes makes your next words sound with conviction.

“You’re worth far more.” Your hands fall to your sides, relaxed.

Fervor has brought a sweeping wave of clarity and steadiness to your tired mind, the likes of which you haven’t felt in many years. You don’t know if it’s the possibility that Bucky will stay that has made you so unshakeable or that you have nothing to lose, but the words suddenly come out from deep within.

“You deserve a hell of a lot better too,” you affirm, “but this is all I have. If you’ll let me, I am happy to be your friend. It’s hard enough to start from zero but harder still with no one to lend a hand.”

A bright sheen lines his eyes as you hold him still with your gaze. Tentatively, you reach out once more, swollen wrist and all, to gently grasp the cool metal fingers.

“Please, Bucky. Let me help.”

He blinks rapidly, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he works to swallow. You feel him curl his fingers tenderly around yours and keep his hold.

“Alright,” he murmurs. “On one condition.”

“What’s that?” you ask surprised.

At this point you’re happy to promise him anything if it will keep him where you can see him, ready to jump to his aid at a moment’s notice.

“Don’t do anything stupid because of me,” he implores.

You lightly squeeze his hand, a small smile curving your lips. “Nothing stupid. Got it.”

A comfortable silence settles over the both of you. Bucky’s metal fingers begin to warm under your careful touch, and you find yourself absentmindedly sliding your thumb in soothing swipes along the first knuckles of the hard digits. His eyelashes make tiny shadows along the tops of his cheekbones as he watches your thumb move, the lines of his face relaxing as the seconds go by. You can feel the beginnings of something soft beginning to swell in your chest, and then suddenly brush against your bare toes-

A mouse, wetly matted and struggling past your foot.

Shrieking, you drop Bucky’s hand and spring on top of the coffee table. Nausea roils your stomach as you see it stop near his boot to spasm weakly.

“What the hell-” the baffled man says as he looks down.

Covering your mouth against the vomit threatening to rise up your throat, you watch as Bucky picks up the mouse by its tail. It flails sluggishly in midair for a few moments before going completely still. The beady black eyes seem to stare at you, and gagging, you motion for him to throw it out. Instead, the soldier inspects it.

“It’s got teeth marks,” he deadpans.

“Oh god, get rid of it,” you gag. “Please. It’s grossing me out.”

As he moves away, you rub your tired face with both hands. You’ve had enough excitement for one night and you just want to go to sleep. Hopping down from the coffee table, you take several breaths through your nose to settle your stomach.

“I’m gonna get you some blankets,” you call over your shoulder, making your way back down the hall. The farther away you are from that nasty mouse, the better.

Reaching your room, you set on going through your closet, pulling out a couple of neatly folded comforters. You place them on the bed and grab a pillow from against the headboard before turning back again to consider the clothes sitting folded on the high shelf of the closet. It was possible you might have something Bucky could change into that wasn’t the black, skin tight leather of his battle gear. Tossing the pillow atop the comforters, you carefully move the neat piles of clothes around, searching.

Towards the back you find a mound of haphazardly thrown garments and instantly recognize them as your brother’s old stuff. He hadn’t wanted the old shirts and basketball shorts, so he’d hoisted them onto you to deal with when you moved, claiming you could use them as chore clothes or extra pajamas. As you pull them out, you find that there is also a pair of faded black sweats. In that moment you send a silent thanks to your brother for being such a flake.

Grabbing a light blue shirt to go with the sweats, you gather it together with the blankets and the pillow before heading back to the living room. Bucky is drying his hands on a kitchen towel when you walk in. He drops it back next to the dish rack, watching you put the load on the coffee table. Separating the clothes from the bedding, you throw him a triumphant grin.

“I found you some clothes,” you beam. “I think they’ll fit.”

Bucky walks over and picks up the clothes while you busy yourself stretching out the blankets across the couch. Satisfied that they’re comfortably placed, you turn around to see the super soldier holding up your brother’s shirt against his chest. He’s frowning down at the design on the front, and you stifle a laugh when you read it. A white periodic table square takes up the shirt’s middle. Inside it is the word “imnotshurium” atop a big “Um” with a line of five question marks below it. Set below the square is a description that reads “the element of indecision”.

“My brother is a dork,” you chuckle. “His clothes tend to display that. Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he says, turning his attention to the sweats.

You smile to yourself and set the pillow at one end of the couch. It hits you then that he is really staying. A sense of relief and optimism washes warmly through you and couples with fatigue to make your body feel incredibly light. If you didn’t know better, you could swear that it would take only a thought to start floating up to the ceiling. He was staying, and you could watch over him as he made his way through this world, at peace at last.

Rustling sounds of fabric bring you back abruptly, and you realize Bucky has started to change clothes behind your back. He’s got the light blue shirt pulled on his shoulders, and your face flushes as he brings it down the muscular planes of his back to cover a set of back dimples from view. While the shirt had hung comfortably loose on your brother, on Bucky it remained tight, defining the lines of his musculature. Clearing your throat nervously, you turn away.

“Uh, if you need anything else just go ahead and help yourself,” you say as evenly as possible. “Mi casa es su casa and all that.”

“Thank you,” he replies.

 “Yeah,” you answer lamely. “No problem.”

With that, you go back to your room before you can hear him begin to take off his pants. Your overactive imagination doesn’t need the material right now when rest is the goal. Yawning profusely, you opt for leaving the bedroom door open in case Bucky needs anything. Climbing gratefully into bed, you snuggle down into your pillow and wrap the blanket tightly around yourself. In the quiet of the house, you can just make out the sounds of him lying down on the couch. Again, a smile overtakes your face, and feeling tiredly content, you shut your eyes and quickly drift off into a dreamless sleep.


End file.
